To M. Stephens

"I see your hair is burning.." -M. Mojo Rising, 1971 It is often said that Books Don't Write Themselves. Books Don't write. Period. Throw in an Emoji. The Great American Novel isn't printed on a page. It is written in the bodies and blood of every man, woman and child. It's scrawled in shorthand by scars, punctuated by scabs and bad teeth and abbreviated by long pauses. It's a weighted volume and it would take you a very long time to finish, indeed. Some Have died trying to add that last punctuation mark. And many stories burned from a straying cigarette butt. "The cat knocked my coffee over." I've chased The Great American Novel, and i lost it somewhere when i was asleep. But when i woke up, i realized that it is not a white buffalo, it is not a memorial; and it certainly cannot be printed: The Great American Novel is tattooed in India ink, bad haircuts, painted across the streets crowned by public housing towers and litter-strewn public parks. Auto shops and Grocery stores, all the way to banks and Clean Houses that smell like carpet shampoo, where the sounds of the television news cover desperate teenage fumbling in His room upstairs. The great American Novel is not an elusive creature. You stalk it's footfalls in the reflection of a stream, you check out your new haircut in it's eyes. You hand it a tip for the cab. It puts your money in a 401k and goes home to it's own private hell. It surprises you with warm apple pie, a pregnancy: THE TRUTH. The Great American Novel cannot be written. The Great American Novel walks on two legs. The Great American Novel is you, and it's me; too. It's quite a read, and The End will blow your mind.